


Je te veux

by CorsetJinx



Category: Shall We Date?: Wizardess Heart+
Genre: M/M, Magic Fisticuffs, Power Dynamic, Snarky Banter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-22
Updated: 2015-11-22
Packaged: 2018-05-02 22:03:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,228
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5265320
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CorsetJinx/pseuds/CorsetJinx
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He couldn't get the answers he wanted, but comes across something else - identity doesn't matter here. - C</p>
            </blockquote>





	Je te veux

**Author's Note:**

> gorecorset (Jinx) and I got to talking and this was born out of those late night ideas. Same universe as Halloween Monsters, simply a ‘what-if’ indulgent scenario. My first Azusa/Luca fic.

He let his feet wander as they wanted, mind and eyes unseeing until he reached the woods. The sun had already gone and he supposed that it might be cold. His ribs throbbed, a reminder of what he’d failed to do. When he finally raised his eyes he noticed a man was sitting on a stump, elbows on knees and head hanging low. Blue eyes looked wet when the monster raised his head, but his face was smooth, so smooth.

“How do you do that?” he asked, not knowing when he’d become close enough to look down at the patchwork man. Even sitting, the brunet was tall, his head level with the reaper’s collarbone.

“What?” the stranger’s voice was rough, like bark, and he found himself tracing one finger over the white lip as it moved.

“This. All of this.” the blankness, the penchant for cruelty even in defeat.

Teeth nicked Luca’s finger, but he had no blood to give.

“I learned.” Blue eyes tracked his expression, leaving him feeling as if he were being picked apart.

A breath, not even really a laugh. It still caused his ribs to complain.

“Teach me.”

Chill fingers winding into his hair pull the reaper back when he might go forward, hisses from his mouth falling on deaf ears. Lips on his neck, cold to his senses, teeth marking the skin there. The brunet’s tongue barely has any heat. Luca finds that he is warmest where the spell holds patchwork flesh and bone together, where the heart might be.

“You’re young.” The voice is deeper, nearly husky against his ear and his own fingers find braids, pull them harshly until they are free. The blue tie which had been wrapped around the taller man’s head falls off at the treatment, fluttering to the ground somewhere by their feet.

“Teach me anyway.”

Turning his head in spite of the sting in his scalp, he finds the man’s mouth and presses there, hungry and hot. He’s sure there’s a moan in there somewhere, his or the other’s he doesn’t know. Pulled in by his hair, green as emeralds, as envy, then thrown back hard enough that he almost falls.

A word, barking and unfamiliar, but it has power and wind rips at him without need for a wand to conduct it. He screams for fire and finds that the patchwork monster fears it not, not like in the stories captured in books, embraces it and the heat.

There is a grotesque kind of beauty in the taller man, in how he leans towards the heat given off by the flames, how it reflects on the metal in his skin and the greedy look in intense blue eyes. He walks through the spell with apparent ease, white, white hands grabbing him, pulling.

The reaper feels himself stumble, the ground rushes up and he catches hold of something – wood meets skin and it’s a stump he’s caught himself on, his hands are stinging but he’s getting his breath back, about to stand. Hands at his shoulders push him back down, knees meeting roots and dirt.

Cool flesh and heavy weight press on him from behind, lips brushing over his ear.

“You’re sure you want to learn?” Thin, delicate seeming fingers move from his shoulders to his collarbone, dipping briefly under his shirt to brush over his chest. Luca felt his heart skip a beat, a hitch in his breath.

But his voice was steady, absolutely certain. “Teach me.”

The fingers slide further under his shirt, the soft cotton of the other man’s sleeve brushing his cheek as he moves; nails rake over his skin as the man pulls his hand back up.

“You’re too hot-headed.” No longer directly by his ear, the other man’s voice is cooler, more controlled. A hand presses against the back of his head, pushing his face nearly against the weathered wood of the stump, earring creating an uncomfortable divot in his skin. The reaper growls low in his throat, trying to lift himself, shove the patchwork man back and make him eat those words.

A chill against the small of his back makes him yelp, wiggling to get away from the touch for all he has nowhere to go. The cold hand stays there, fingers splayed over his spine. From above there is a chuckle, he feels those lips touch his neck again. “Just like that. You go from one extreme to the other, too wild.”

“You say that, but you’re running too.” Turning as much as he can, one green eye catches something passing over the foreigner’s face. A blue eye narrows, that much he is sure of. Feeling hurt, feeling bold, he continues. “What? Afraid that body will fall apart if you push too hard? I can take care of that for you, since your lesson is putting me to sleep.”

Silence.

Pins and needles move over his skin, because it is the kind of silence that comes before an explosion, an avalanche, a hurricane. The reanimated man needs no wand to use his magic but that isn’t what happens. What draws a shuddering breath from his lungs isn’t a spell but the slow, deliberate caress of a thumb ghosting over the flesh behind his ear, down over his pulse. It stops at the juncture of neck and shoulder, moving over the crest of bone to make a path up to the base of his skull.

It doesn’t tickle, not quite, but Luca twitches beneath it, gives too much away.

It happens again, this time tracing the shell of his ear and then down; his lashes want to flutter at the feeling but what he does is swat at the other man. The hand at his back catches him by the wrist, lacking the feathery lure of the fingers teasing him entirely.

“Stop it.” It’s distracting, not what the green haired youth expected.

“What has you so afraid?” Comes the response, thumb rubbing a slow circle against the tender skin beneath his jaw. Presses there, once, slow and steady to make his breath catch. “You won’t win if all you do is bluster and misdirect.”

He tries to to swallow and the pressure lifts, the hand around his wrist maneuvering the limb back to the stump. Short nails press into the wood, turning the nail beds largely white. The brunet releases that arm once sure that the shorter one won’t move, still mapping circles down the length of Luca’s neck. Maybe its the shift of his hips that gives it away the most, next to the heat which settles into his cheeks.

The next sentence has a different tone, something knowing and amused.

“Is there a limit on how far you want the lesson to go?” The movements of the pale thumb cease, idly resting on flushed skin. It feels as though the reaper’s swallow is loud, or maybe its that he’s tuned out the noises of the forest.

“I said teach me, you know. Unless you aren’t willing to learn about yourself too.” The younger man says it confidently enough, even flush against the stump, knees complaining at the weight they’re upholding.

There’s the sound of something wet, he strains to decipher the origin but loses focus when it reveals itself. Slick fingers ease between his pants and bare skin, pressing against him and he jerks away from it, hissing out his surprise. A green eye glares back at what he can see of blue, cheeks hot and the front of his pants admittedly tight.

“What do you think you’re doing?” It leaves him as a demand more than a question, defiant and not entirely bluster.

The blue eye curves, he can glimpse the faintest of smiles. “Did I misread? If so, I can teach you through bruises from magic instead.”

He’s curious, truly so, about how far his own magic might measure against the brunet man’s, but there are definitely better ways to satisfy that need for knowledge. His hips twitch, partly from the position he’s in, part because he’s sure he can feel how eager the brunet is to conduct this lesson. Amazing, on some level, that even with a body of seemingly spare parts that one would still work.

“Don’t get too ahead of yourself.” Is all he says, and is rewarded when those fingers gently press against him once more. There’s pressure, unfamiliar and uncomfortable, slightly mitigated by the slow caress resuming at his pulse. A soft shush leaves the taller man behind him as the patchwork man coaxes him to relax.

He reaches down on his own to undo the restriction of his pants, letting himself press back against the hand as the contact became less a source of discomfort. Was that part of this so-called ‘lesson’, being a good boy and -

The thought leaves him, one long finger slowly touching something that tingles along his nerves. It keeps happening, soon enough he doesn’t care about losing points or ground and rests his forehead against one arm, lips apart as he takes another shaky breath.

As he grows used to it the pressure changes, more is added and the process starts all over again – this time chilled lips replace the fingers at his neck and there’s teeth scraping over his skin and it makes him moan. If he tenses, squeezes, the man behind him stops and its something he’s grateful for – common courtesy seems like it’d be a good thing to have in this type of situation.

By the time the digits are gone and replaced with something else, he’s a hot mess and the brunet has to keep his hips still to prevent him from moving on his own. There’s a husky laugh against his ear, breath ruffling the hair splay over his face, a murmur of “Still too hot-headed.”

“Do it already,” he hisses back, using what leverage he can to strain against the patchwork man’s grip, skin jumping where it comes into contact with cold flesh. The tingle of gooseflesh is another tease entirely, but he feels the shiver that runs through the brunet as the heat teases him.

Despite his protests, he’s thankful when the taller man takes it slow. A noise emerges from his throat that would be embarrassing if anyone were around to hear it, one hand leaving the wood before him to grasp the paler man’s thigh, scrabbling against the cotton of his odd clothes to find purchase.

There’s a kiss against his pulse, that same, soft shush that both irritates him and soothes the newness of the situation. They stop, often, because there’s only so much he can take and he doesn’t have the mind to wonder at the other’s patience – real or feigned.

“You.. you done this before?” He wishes that last bit didn’t leave him as a gasp, but it did; there’s a heat in his lower belly that’s somewhat familiar and he has an idea of what it means, regardless of his current partner. The only response is a low hum against his shoulder, the tickle of hair that isn’t his and lips on his skin. Pale hands guide his hips, stopping him from pressing too far, too fast.

The bastard is doing damn well at forcing him into moderation and he’s not sure he likes it.

But he must because he keeps pushing his hips back for more.

The hand that had been at his neck moves, resting against his chest and pulling him back, up against the taller man’s body and away from the stump. It takes some of the pressure off his knees and the next time the brunet moves his hips his mind goes a little more blank. Nails press lightly into the skin over his heart, where he’s warm and the pulse must be something the reanimated man craves because, if anything, he’s being held tighter as the brunet slides into him again.

“Miss it that much, do you?” Luca feels himself laugh a little, slightly breathless. The answer is a punctuated roll of hips, touching that spot from before only its stronger now and he noise he just made might cause Prince Elias to burst a blood vessel.

Lips against his ear move, an edge of something wild in the man’s voice. “And here I thought you’d lost the capacity for retort. Maybe you’ll learn something after all.” The reaper squirms, managing to turn his head enough that the taller man can steal a kiss; a loud moan pulled out of him when the hand at his hip reaches down to curl around his shaft and squeeze. His hips jerk, whatever he was going to say lost as the steady pace drives him a little closer to that dizzying heat.

“Luca.” His name, odd in that accented voice is strangely what it takes to make him topple. He shudders, eyes screwing shut and ignores the grunt from behind as he fists a hand in long brown hair. He’d almost say he was burning, but it passed too quickly for that and once he’d blinked several times, cleared the haziness from his mind he found that pale face smirking down at him – grass tickling his back and pants now loosely secure about his hips.

The patchwork man had the gall to run a thumb over his lips and he bit the digit, just because he could.


End file.
